Doubts Don't Deter Detectives
by hophophop
Summary: Pieces written for the Watson's Woes LJ-community 2013 July writing prompt challenge. Each chapter contains 7-8 days of prompts, 5 chapters total for the month (including a bonus round in early August). "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. That is not even how the brain works, by the way."
1. Chapter 1: prompts 1-8

_"That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. That is not even how the brain works, by the way."_

* * *

**Title**: Coco & Butter  
**Summary**: Who doesn't like cats?  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #1: [photo of two cats sitting under an umbrella in the rain]

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Watson put down her tablet, unable to concentrate any longer on the economic geography of New York's subway expansion since 1950. She had already paged to the end of the pdf to see how much of the remaining article was taken up by notes and references: Not enough. Time for a break and a snack.

She headed down to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then went outside to the courtyard for some air. Looking up, she observed that every window of the house directly across from theirs had a cat in view. She was pretty sure the building was divided into at least three apartments, but still. An unlikely configuration.

"Actually, no," Holmes said when she mentioned it to him as they both stood at the stove and watched the teapot while the tea steeped. "I'm sorry to say cats are by far the most common pet in the United States."

"I know that; it's still unusual to see one in every single window when we're talking about that many windows."

"Something like a carnival shooting gallery display, one hopes."

"What a lovely thought." She lifted the teapot lid and pulled the strainer out while he brought over two mugs. "What's wrong with cats, anyway?"

"Hmm? You'll have to be more specific, Watson."

"You complained about Milverton's cat. You're irritated by their very existence nearby. Are you allergic?"

"It's not the animal that irks me; it's the keeping of them. People who keep cats are rarely worth knowing." He set his tea on the table and opened the fridge, eyes cataloguing the contents with dissatisfaction.

"Okay, that's possibly the grossest exaggeration I've heard from you since you claimed your brain is like an attic with limited space for new ideas."

"It is like that," he insisted, closing the fridge door without taking anything from inside.

"Clearly, if you think it's reasonable to condemn everyone who's ever had a cat as beneath your contempt."

"Oh, I wouldn't say beneath. I give them the full measure of it."

She looked at him over the rim of her mug, and he realized what she was going to say just as she said it. "We had a cat when I was growing up, and I had two of my own until just before I started being a wandering nomad of sobriety." She pulled a package out of the cupboard and set it on the counter, stuffing her hand inside to grab a cookie. She looked back at him, defiant. "Coco and Butter."

His eyes grew wide in horror until she couldn't help laughing.

"No, I'm kidding. Harry and Hermione."

He grabbed his mug off the table with a glare in her direction and marched back to his room.

"Princess and Pea. Tea and Biscuit!" He slammed the french doors.

She took her mug back outside and sat on the cinderblock used to prop open the back door, watching the cats across the way and reminiscing fondly of Rosalind and Franklin.

* * *

**Title**: Fun Times  
**Summary**: Holmes develops conspiracy theories and Watson eventually responds as expected.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #2: From A to Z: Use at least two of the following words: abdicate, automaton, allele, Zarathustra, zither.

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"Which sounds more conspiratorial, genetically modifying the 'warrior gene' to cause a natural leader to abdicate? Or modifying it to make someone become an automaton?"

Watson didn't bother looking up from the paper, but she allowed raised eyebrows to signal she'd heard what he said, just wasn't going to engage. The lack of eye-roll was further indication that her silence was intended to be friendly, even amused. Still, he was in the mood for riposte before heading off to his conspiracy theorists. Letting off a little sarcasm beforehand would make it much easier to maintain the earnest and only slightly agitated tone required to cast his bait with success.

He fidgeted at his desk, drafting language to post. Perhaps the conspiracy could offer both possibilities, either according to a variation in the original gene, or as an option, suggesting that abdication and automatonization have some genetic commonality. Alternatively, it might be worth observing how long it took for automatons to be restated as zombies...

Flipping the effect of the gene from sociopathy to apathy might actually not be far-fetched enough for the current group. Zara, his new contact there, tended to prefer promoting complexity over plausibility. Not something he wanted to fault, as a rule, but it might impede the success of this theory, of which he was rather fond.

He was bouncing a pencil back and forth over his thumb while visualizing the allele when Watson came into the study.

"Nobody came out to play?" she asked, settling down at her desk and shifting stacks of papers from one pile to another.

"I'm still preparing my opening salvo. Zarathustra has much higher standards for rhetorical logic than the late lamented Len had."

"Zarathustra. Is the 'z-name' a thing?"

"If by 'thing' you mean community tradition for moderator names, then yes."

"So you're preparing your offering to a Persian god, whose primary tenet is the pursuit of truth, in the form of an elaborate lie." She looked at him over the top of her glasses.

He held her gaze and scratched the side of his head, then the end of his nose, and finally his jaw before heaving a sigh.

"I didn't say that was reason not to do it; it's ironic, is all. Not to mention blasphemous," she said.

"I didn't suggest the new moderator go by 'Zarathustra'."

"No, I am sure you are completely innocent of any manipulation of the social dynamics among your conspiracy nuts."

"Please Watson, the respectful term is theorists. Conspiracy theorists."

"Says the man who goes there to watch them walk into walls."

"Fine! What would you have me do instead? Boredom looms." He started bouncing the pencil again.

She looked around the room littered with boxes and piles and gadgets and monitors and detritus of all kinds, then turned back and looked at him over her glasses again, eyebrows slightly more elevated than before. It was close now, he could feel it. He weighed his options and made his selection.

"You never want to do anything fun," he pouted.

The eye-roll that followed met all his expectations with room to spare.

* * *

**Title**: Horizons  
**Summary**: Watson dreams about wide open spaces.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #3: Sacred spaces: Incorporate the religion or philosophy of your choice into today's story, in whatever manner you choose.

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Walking home over the bridge was her favorite part of this route. There was the sense of accomplishment at completing a long run, and the anticipation of the eggs and strong coffee she'd have at the diner. When a case came in while she was out, Sherlock would already be there waiting for her. More often, though, she enjoyed her breakfast alone with whatever section of the Sunday paper was at the top of the pile by the diner door, left to be shared by customers gone before. But it was atop the span, with the river below, and always a breeze if not strong wind, and the ever changing light on the struts and supports that she loved. A little taste of being in the middle of the natural world.

She'd like to visit Montana or one of the Dakotas someday. See the horizon as a circle of land and sky, no fractal edge of human landscape embellishing the edge. She couldn't remember the last time she'd gone to the beach, just sat on the sand, watching the waves and gazing into the space where sea met the sky. Three years ago? Emily's family had rented a house in Ocean City, and she'd joined them for a weekend. She laughed, trying to picture Sherlock spending a weekend in a rental house at the Jersey shore. He'd be off looking for crime on the boardwalk, no doubt, and she'd go along, grumbling about the sand in her shoes. The world of the puzzle was his sacred space, she thought, a virtual experience he carried within and through which the whole world was filtered. Illuminated. She'd already experienced that flash herself and wanted more of it. But she also liked letting it all fall away sometimes to feel more a part of the world by holding less of it inside.

She was pleased to see there was no wait for a table at the diner. Before finding a seat, she searched through the newspaper pile for the real estate section. It was time to test her hypothesis about Sherlock at the beach.

* * *

**Title**: **WAT**[c]**S**[dh]**O**[fmj]**N**  
**Summary**: Doubts don't deter detectives.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #4: Use at least one alliterative sentence in today's entry - and the more alliterations, the better!

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Weary Watson wants wonderfully worn woven wrappings wreathed around aching arms and appendages. Tantalizing cheese-topped toast chosen to compliment cups containing tea tempts cold consulting trainee currently tasked to trade comfort to test concentration. She shoulders Sherlock's strange schedule, sure she should shield short shrift struggles. Doubts don't deter detectives. Her hunger, however, hovers, having hours of opportunity on obscure old haunts far from forage for fodder. Many meeker mortals might justify juggling niggling needs now; not Joan.

* * *

**Title**: Down South  
**Summary**: Watson got around and would like to get around some more.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #5: 'Three Continents Watson': We know that two of them are Europe and Asia. But what is the third, and why was Watson there? Tell us! **A/N**: Joan Watson has obviously been to North America, so I'm stretching this prompt a bit to reflect Elementary's spin on canon.

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Once she determined this was not going to be like the dubious excursion to Norway that never happened, Watson was excited.

"I haven't been to London. Or anywhere in Europe, for that matter."

"Seriously, Watson? American parochialism is a a well-established travesty, but I expected better of you."

"I didn't say I haven't travelled; I just haven't gotten to all the continents yet. And while I know there are ways for people to see the world without access to unlimited funds, your personal privilege is showing a bit with that kind of attitude."

"I wasn't speaking generally, I was referring to you, specifically. I am surprised to hear you did not at least participate in a study-abroad program as an undergraduate. Seems like the sort of resume-padding expected of pre-med students."

"And again with the assumptions. I did, in fact." He opened his mouth and shut it again, shaking his head and gesturing for her to continue uninterrupted.

"I considered Semester-at-Sea but their focus is on international studies and the ship didn't have the kind of support for science I wanted. At the time I had a little fantasy of becoming a marine biologist, so being close to the ocean was on the wishlist. In the end, I spent a term in Quito and got to take a research excursion to the Galapagos."

"I apologize for doubting you. I have not made it to South America myself."

"I went back to celebrate after finishing medical school. Ended up rolling another 20K into my student loans to spend a month hiking in the Andes and taking a cruise to Antarctica."

"Consider me impressed."

"Yeah, me too, although it was a truly idiotic move, financially. But I did a lot in my early twenties. I did a lot in the next fifteen years, too, but nothing that involved leaving the country, what with residencies and those loans. The track record is just as poor for the first half of my forties, so that's part of why this trip is important to me."

She paused and stepped toward him, finger outstretched and pointing in emphasis but not quite hitting his sternum. "If there's any chance this is some elaborate ruse to piss off your family, speak now. Because once I renew my passport, I'm going on this trip, whether you come or not."

He backed away from her and sat down at his desk. "I have no intention of canceling the trip. With any luck, there will be no more contact with my father than what I enjoy here in New York; the purpose is purely for work. Although considering that it is your maiden voyage, I will allow some off time."

"Oh you will, will you?"

"In fact, I will get started on an extracurricular itinerary to further your training."

"You do that. Just as long as it includes visits to museums — art museums, that is, not just medical oddity and criminal history ones — theatre, and somewhere at least two hours out of the city by train."

"And an audience with the Queen?"

"Sure, why not? You have a contact in London who can set that up?" She laughed and headed upstairs to her room.

Once she was out of sight, he rubbed the side of his neck and looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, actually...," he muttered.

* * *

**Title**: Solace  
**Summary**: Watson does not seek comfort.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #6:Poem Prompt: Futility by Wilfred Owen.

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He found her sitting on a bench in the neighborhood park two hours later. She steeled herself, praying to a god she'd never really believed in, that this would be one of the times he understood that less was more, that silence was not preferred but fully necessary or she wouldn't be able to bear it.

He was carrying a lunch-sized brown paper bag when he sat down next to her and set it on his knees. He carefully unfolded the top and used the back of one hand just inside the bag to open out the creases. Then he gingerly reached inside and pulled out his hand until she saw his middle finger and thumb, pincer-like, extracting an extravagantly frosted pink cupcake. He extended his hand toward her, and she shook her head, not quite believing what she was seeing.

He wasn't looking at her and didn't see or acknowledge her refusal. He kept his arm out a few moments longer, and when she didn't take the offering, he set the cupcake down on the bench between them. He then repeated the process with the second cupcake, setting it down to fold up the bag into a flat rectangle he slipped into his coat pocket, exchanging it for two paper napkins, also pink. He offered her a napkin, which she took and clutched in a fist in her lap.

They sat in silence until the chill in the air and the warmth of the pink frosting glowing between them brought some order to her troubled thoughts.

"Why?" she asked.

"It was the only food truck still open."

She smiled, laughing a little, and dipping her head down as the tears started again. If they'd gotten to the scene five minutes earlier the boy would have survived. She used the pink napkin to wipe her eyes and nose. If—

"Have a cupcake, Watson." He held one out to her again, and she met his eyes this time and knew he knew.

She put out her hand to share the solace he offered.

* * *

**Title**: The Truth Is Out There  
**Summary**: Watson follows in Scully's footsteps.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #7: The Tangled Web: It's crossover time! Incorporate at least one other character from another fictional universe or from actual history. Crack is just fine for this prompt. **A/N**: Inspired by this fantastic comic: vilecrocodile dot tumblr dot com / post / 43018009626

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Joan couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Dana. Before she left medicine, anyway. Maybe a year or two before that. Dana would remember. They always had a good time getting together, but Joan was especially looking forward to sharing her news. Given how much had changed in her life over the last three years, she was hopeful hers would be the more memorable story this time.

Dana was always so deadpan, she wasn't entirely sure how to take some of the tales she'd regaled. Global conspiracies to use alien hoaxes as a cover up seemed _just_ a little far-fetched. She knew what Sherlock would say because she'd rolled her eyes through more than one rant on the subject on the days he worked on his hobby.

"Joan!" Dana waved as she jogged down the stairs of the university building where she'd given her lecture.

"Dana, it's great to see you!" The two hugged and held each other at arms' length, smiling before breaking apart to walk along the path. "Any takers after your talk today?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. There's been a steady increase over the last few years. Doesn't bode well for the profession, that more potential doctors are interested in working outside traditional medical practice, but that's a problem for another day. How's your practice going?"

"Well... I'm part of the problem I suppose."

"What?!"

"Yeah. I let my license expire. I'm working as a consulting detective now."

"Okay, we are going to sit down and have a bottle of wine and you are going to tell me everything."

"How's Mulder?"

"Oh god." Dana rubbed her forehead with one hand. "His latest is some sort of international crime lord whom nobody knows but everybody is controlled by. I should be grateful for a reprieve from the extraterrestrials but I don't know; I kinda miss them. At least they weren't motivated by financial and political gain. And they seem only slightly less plausible than this character."

Joan coughed, tucking her arm through Dana's. "Sounds like we do have a lot to catch up on."

* * *

**Title**: Object in Mirror  
**Summary**: Watson doesn't like what she sees.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #8 Forced perspective: Either use the concept in your story, or find an image that uses this technique and use it as the basis for the story.

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Joan wasn't quite accurate about the mirrors, she conceded, standing in the bathroom in front of exhibit A. The dim hanging bulb deepened the shadows under her eyes and alongside her mouth, making her grateful there was no brighter light to see even more clearly how lost she was. No excuse for an outburst like that; unprofessional at the very least. Unethical, too, but not the worst case of that she'd had to own up to by any means. Not that it didn't add its weight to the burden she carried. This work was supposed to help lighten the load. Help people at risk find a safer path. Life-saving work without the danger and horror of a blade in her hand, under her control. Out of her control.

She ran the tap until the water ran cold, long seconds as it made its way up the ancient pipes threaded through uninsulated walls, carrying the heat of the rooms it traversed. She held the wet washcloth to her face, taking deep breaths and trying to slow her agitated heart. She stumbled, was all. He was an intelligent, angry, frustrated person at a disadvantage. Certainly used to being in control and successful in that control, newly faced with its loss. He did what was expected, and she was caught off guard. That was a mistake, but not a failure. Nobody died. She remembered the walls covered with photos of Amy Dampier, and sighed.


	2. Chapter 2: prompts 9-16

**Title**: TTYL  
**Summary**: Watson cd do w/o txt shorthand.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #9: WWWWD?: Make up an acronym and use it in your story.

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Joan stared at the screen with increasing frustration.

**mm cs 478W109 byog **

She had no trouble deciphering the first two bursts, but bring your own... gear? glasses? gloves? gun? Garrote?

**BMOW **

**? **

"Oh, for—"

**bring my own WHAT **

**glvs, obvs! **

Obviously. Well, in retrospect, it was the most likely, given their SOP and budget cuts at the NYPD. Not that she'd let on. Her secret motto was fast becoming 'What would Columbo do?' and keeping things to himself was fairly high on that list.

**omw **

**mm stn huw **

BS (her inner 11-year-old always snickered at that one), she'd liked the name Huw spelled that way. Now that it meant 'hurry up Watson' her fondness had worn thin.

She stuffed a handful of gloves in her bag to have them for the next time. At this rate, he'd be home and grousing about no new cases by the time she got to the station.

She was walking up the steps to Gregson's floor when the next one came in.

**30+min way?! HU **

His impatience snapped hers, and her jaw tensed. Where am I? Not at your fucking beck and call, that's for sure. She expelled a heavy breath and tried to calm herself. WWCD? Probably not this.

**you need to BACK OFF that is not an acronym **

She could see him now, facing away from her at the far end of the floor from the stairwell. He had been conversing vehemently with Bell when he glanced again at his phone and went still. Bell took the opportunity to escape and walked in her direction, shaking his head in frustration as he passed; she offered a commiserating half-grin.

After a moment Sherlock rubbed his forehead and his shoulders raised and dropped as if releasing a sigh, and he started typing again.

**sry wd v much like yr asstnc pls Wtsn **  
** yr rlst convnc **

He was hunched over his phone, thumbs almost vibrating with the need to punch the next line of code. She approached quietly on his left and stretched her arm out to tap his right shoulder so he jerked the wrong way when she stepped up to his side.

"Here I am."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

key:

ttyl = talk to you later  
mm cs = meet me at crime scene  
478W109 = the address, 478 West 109th St  
SOP = standard operating procedure  
NYPD = New York Police Department  
o m w = on my way  
mm stn = meet me at station  
BS = before Sherlock (or bullshit to 11-yr-old Joan)  
way = where are you  
And Holmes' apology =  
sorry would very much like your assistance please Watson  
at your earliest convenience

* * *

**Title**: Practice  
**Summary**: Practice is never perfected.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #10: Musical prompt: Chaconne for violin alone (J. S. Bach, Partita for solo violin No. 2 in D minor, BWV 1004). **A/N**: I found a 50-min radio interview about the Chaconne on Radio Open Source; it's a great overview of the piece, its importance, and the relationship some musicians have with it over their lifetimes.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The now-familiar chords began, and as had become her custom over the years, she stopped and listened until the first pause. It was a long interval this time, almost four minutes before he stopped and picked up at a different point. She returned to her work, letting the music recede as backdrop to her concentration.

When he came back to the study two hours later, he went directly to the files he'd abandoned earlier, too preoccupied with the connection he sought to acknowledge anything else until the link was confirmed and he sat back in his chair with a satisfied, "Ah!"

She smiled to herself; they'd make new progress now that the music had showed him what he needed to know.

*.*

The first time he'd picked up the violin a month after getting shot in the shoulder, she heard him go through some simple runs and was surprised when he started on the Bach. Even she could tell he was struggling with it, the tempo much slower than she was used to, and he ended the session after only twenty minutes. When he came into the kitchen after, his left arm was arced over his head, right hand on his elbow, and he continued to roll and stretch his shoulder while cracking eggs one-handed into the wok on the stove. He waved the carton at her inquisitively as she stood at the sink, and she shook her head.

"Do you ever play it all the way through?" she asked.

"Not when anyone else could hear," he said absentmindedly, concentrating on whisking his eggs.

She hoped for more, but when he didn't continue, she returned to washing the dishes and tried to imagine creating something by putting a little bit of it together and then taking it apart again, over and over. She'd tried to learn to knit once, in medical school, and the experience could have been described like that, and it was horribly frustrating. Practicing deconstruction as an expert or at least very skilled amateur was different from the inadvertent deconstruction caused by a beginner, though.

He interrupted her reverie by reaching over and turning off the tap above her stilled hands. "Sorry," she said. "I was just trying to imagine what it's like. Practicing without ever finishing."

"It's like life." He frowned a bit, spatula slicing back and forth across the eggs in a constant motion. A minute later he turned off the heat and slid the wok's contents into a large green bowl, setting the wok on a back burner and pulling a spoon she'd just washed out of the dish rack. He sat down at the table, still frowning at his eggs. He wasn't being purposefully evasive, she didn't think; just not in a particularly verbal frame of mind. She finished the dishes and dried her hands on a towel, then started toward the stairs.

"It's— It's like training for long-distance running," he continued, as if he hadn't sat in silence for the last five minutes. "Or perhaps like ballet practice. Or meditation?"

She turned back and sat down in the chair opposite him. "Those all involve doing the same thing over and over again. From what I can tell, that's not exactly what you're doing when you play, is it?"

"Yes and no. There is the practice, the repetition, getting to know the layout, the basic requirements of the piece. And then there's the exploration of it. Figuring out how it works, why it works, what happens if you emphasize this part here or find a repeating pattern there. You've analyzed texts like that, we do it in our investigations, looking for patterns and interpretations we didn't recognize before."

"Ah," she said, suddenly understanding the value of it to him, the constant lure of the puzzle. She was a little envious of the relationship he had with his violin, the way she was when she heard about a couple celebrating some impossible anniversary, 60 or 70 years of marriage. It was too late for her to have that, so many decades of interaction with the same person or the same piece of music. Choice and circumstance put her on a different, more varied path.

She gazed down at her hands and thought about the things she'd practiced doing with them: long-abandoned clarinet lessons, gymnastics in junior high, that miserable attempt at knitting, surgery... She suppressed a laugh as she added breaking into cars to the list and was startled when he spoke again.

"And then there's the surprise of continuing to find the unexpected when working with something you were certain you already knew very well indeed." He met her eyes for a moment when she looked up at him, a hesitant glance that retreated back to his bowl before she could fully register her what he had said.

She thought ahead to the future, unknown years of companionship and practice and new things to discover. "I know what you mean," she said.

* * *

**Title**: Something of a Muse  
**Summary**: Ms Hudson makes some deductions.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #11: Ladies' Night: Use a female POV. **A/N: **I adjusted for Elementary by assuming the implied addendum to the prompt is "that is not Watson's."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She'd been embarrassed to ask, but she was at her wit's end, cashflow was a bit of an issue, and everyone else she knew had either fled the impending blizzard already, had no space to spare, or would be too inclined to offer judgment rather than haven. There had been a long pause on the phone after she'd finished giving what was surely even for him too much information about the state of her love life. Just before she started to apologize for the presumption he said, "No problem at all, we have plenty of room, happy to provide a port in a storm." She'd been about to hang up when he blurted out awkwardly that he didn't live alone at the moment, the housemate was a partner in his consulting business. In case he was out when she arrived. Watson.

The only other time she'd been to his home was to confer on an epigraph; she'd had to come to him because he had the actual 300-kilo stele fragment sitting in the middle of his kitchen. He recounted the elaborate circumstances that led to this unusual state of affairs, but it wasn't relevant to what he needed from her, and she let him rattle on paying little mind. The place was a wreck but the shambles made clear that no one had bothered to gut the original architectural details, and there was so much potential that that was all she recalled of the place.

When he opened the door to her this time, she took in his disheveled demeanor and, as with the house, looked past it to see the spaces and lines and original features that spoke to the substance and promise of what lay underneath. The house was more or less the same, no worse for the abundant wear that lay in piles and stacks and disarray everywhere, she was happy to see. He, however. He was different. Changed. For all his not-so-carefully cultivated eccentricity (and she believed he did come by it naturally, more or less), he was steadier. To extend the architectural metaphor, she thought his structural integrity had been buttressed. A new foundation, even.

It became clear that this "Watson" must be the reason for the transformation she sensed, but it was just as clear that her initial easy assumptions as to how and why were all wrong. At first she assumed, she was later ashamed to admit to herself, that this Watson was a Mr. Watson, as most investigators and detectives were. He'd said Watson was at the store, Watson's room was upstairs, Watson this and that. There was a lot about Watson, and she sensed he enjoyed the presence of a friend and colleague, someone with whom he apparently felt comfortable being himself, someone to provide counterweight to the isolation that tended to follow those whose vocation was the life of the mind. As she well knew from personal experience.

When Joan came in, two things were immediately obvious. Well, three: first, not "mister." Second, Holmes had neglected to let Joan know she was staying, and third, Joan was not someone she would ever have pictured as his companion. Another failure of the imagination, and really she should know better than to make quick assumptions based on appearance. By the end of the day, she'd spent more time with Joan than with Holmes, and she had revised her mistaken first impressions considerably.

It was perhaps understandable, given her own immediate circumstances, to assume that the two were romantically engaged. That began to seem more and more improbable as the day went on. She barely saw him at all, and Joan did not seem to orient herself to him as lover or girlfriend in any way. Again, appearances can be deceiving, but she eventually concluded her second original assumption, that Watson was his friend and colleague, no more, was correct.

She halted then, suddenly struck by that phrase: "no more." What a sad state of affairs, the basis for much of her current misery, to put such high value on one kind of relationship at the expense of all others. Their "no more" needed no further embellishment or addition to be complete. Well, as far as she knew. They each seemed content with it, in any case, in their very different ways.

Joan had been lovely company all evening, kind and supportive of her situation, gently encouraging independence and self-care. She clearly had some counseling training before coming to work with Holmes; she'd indicated with empathy that she'd been through some difficult upheavals in her own life, without going into details. They had shared amusing stories of exasperating experiences with Holmes, and she could tell that Joan was happy working with him, at ease in her circumstances despite the attendant frustrations and oddities, or possibly because of them. She seemed to be a woman who enjoyed a challenge, although perhaps not entirely self-confident in all things. But who was? (For all his bluster, even Holmes had his weaknesses.)

As they sat by the fire in the blackout's darkness, she sensed that what she was most impressed by, and she most wished for herself, was that Joan seemed to be at home where she was. Part of that was Holmes, and the spirited dynamic they shared, but only part. She seemed to be at home in herself. Only recently settled in, apparently, but in a good place nonetheless. Observing this helped her recognize the state of disrepair in herself, and where she might begin. Time to embark on a plan of restoration.

* * *

**Title**: A.K.A.  
**Summary**: Some nicknames are better than others.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #12: The naming of characters is a difficult matter. For example, 'Sherlock' means 'fair-haired'; John means 'God is Gracious.' Either use one (or both) of these bits of trivia in your story, or include a character whose name means something appropriate to his/her part.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Holmes was practicing his calligraphy with a bit of light forgery when the burst of laughter broke his concentration and sent a line of ink where it should not go. He bit down on a "B—!" and glared in the direction of the stairs where the sound had come from. Watson was supposed to be learning the finer points of ignition systems, and to the best of his recollection, it was not a source of _that _much amusement.

*.*

Joan wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes, trying to picture it. "'Elrond?' And that didn't get you beat up?"

"We didn't use them outside of 'Gimli's' basement, believe me. We were ten-year-old Black kids reading Tolkien! We were nerds, not idiots."

"You must have been so excited when you found that out."

"Oh yeah. Learning Alfredo meant 'elf counselor' made me the coolest dude in that basement," he laughed. "Of course by the time I was twelve, it was more like a liability..."

"Oh god, I hated being twelve. And thirteen, and fourteen... Adolescence is a nightmare. Not too much ammunition in my name, at least."

"Hmm." He tilted his head, considering.

"You just can't do much with it. Believe me, many have tried."

"I'm sure."

"'Wat's up' was pretty much the pinacle. Fatson, Moan, Boney, Joan of Arc, of course. Nothing stuck, for which I will be forever grateful."

"You don't like nicknames?"

"I don't like ridicule. I was pretty low in the middle school pecking order. Anonymity was much preferred to any kind of recognition."

"I hear ya."

"Okay, lemme try again." Joan put the headphones on, wincing slightly at the blare of a car alarm that now filled her ears, and stuck her hands into the mass of ignition wires hanging under the table. After just a minute of fiddling, she made the connection, then turned it off and tried three more times, each a little more quickly than the last.

She pulled off the headphones and switched off the recording. "All right. I've got the visualization working now. I think I'm ready for another round of live tests."

They packed up the equipment in easy silence, and Alfredo was heading to the door when he asked, "What does 'Sherlock' mean, do you know?"

*.*

He'd figured out how to camouflage the errant line within the document's watermark and was holding his breath while delicately tracing the filigree underneath when Alfredo's sudden loud laugh startled him again and the twitch in his fingers ruined three hours of work. His mood did not improve when he deduced the topic of conversation from Alfredo's next exclamation.

"Blondie!?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A.K.A. = also known as

* * *

**Title**: Knife-Edge of Destruction  
**Summary**: A worst-case scenario.  
**Warning**: Implied — but not proven! — character death. Possibly more than one.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #13: One of those days: Murphy's Law says that when things can go wrong, they will.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Gregson stood in the middle of the street, staring in stunned disbelief at the pile of rubble.

"She said he was always complaining about the state it was in." Bell's voice was flat, and he kept his eyes busy up and down the block, looking everywhere but. "Thought his father should pay for the repairs, so he refused. She had some horror stories about the plumb—" His voice cracked. "The plumbing."

Gregson turned abruptly, shouting toward the other respondents scattered across the scene, "What do we know?"

Five hours later the street was cleared for passage, and it was just the remains of three houses marked with yellow "Do Not Cross" tape. Gas and electricity were still shut off to allow search and rescue access with their dogs. Six people were confirmed dead and ten others still missing, Holmes and Watson among them.

"Absence of evidence is proof of a kind," Bell muttered.

"What's that?" Gregson asked.

"Something she told me he used to say when she first started the consulting. You know, something not being where it's expected is still information you can use. But I can't get the phrase out of my head." They stood leaning against a patrol car, watching the canine teams get organized.

"Maybe the dogs won't find anything."

"Doesn't feel like that kinda day, captain."

On a rooftop behind them, the sniper took aim.

* * *

**Title**: Je ne sais quoi  
**Summary**: Watson can't quite put it into words.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #14: La Fête Nationale: aka Bastille Day. In honor of the holiday, include France or something French. Or if you really wish, write today's entry in French!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"We almost went to Norway," Joan said, blowing on her tea, impatient for the caffeine.

"Almost doesn't count." Gabrielle stirred her iced coffee, and the clinking of the ice cubes made Joan wish she'd gotten that instead.

"Okay. But I didn't choose the work for its international travel opportunities, like Oren. And I have seen a lot more of the city since I started doing this than I had in four decades of living here."

"I bet! More dingy alleyways and crack dens and morgues than the average New Yorker, by far." Her sister-in-law had spent enough time among such denizens to acknowledge their sense of superiority with just the right amount of outsider derision to let the natives know she was not cowed. Joan approved.

"And high-tech labs, and some amazing homes, and abandoned subway tunnels, and inside bridges..."

"Inside? How does that work?"

"They need access to the electrical systems and to make repairs and stuff. So there are stairwells and control rooms within the frame. Locations vary by bridge."

"Do I want to know what kind of case took you inside a bridge?"

"...Er, probably not. Not while we're eating, anyway."

They sipped in silence for a moment, Joan wincing at her burned tongue and wondering if the scone she'd ordered would make it worse.

"We got paid in French pastry, once."

"That doesn't count as travel either."

"You didn't taste it, oh my god. They would have the raw dough shipped over from France every week, because of the butter. Something about the way the butter is processed there that's not allowed by the FDA or something, and the croissants... Getting paid that way was Sherlock's idea; I was skeptical until the first bite. We had fresh baguettes and croissants and brioche for a month."

"What was the case?"

"Smuggling. The bakery owner's accountant was using the weekly shipment arrangement to get New Jersey wine into France."

Gabrielle started laughing.

"I know, I know, what were they thinking? Apparently, thanks to climate change, New Jersey has some pretty good vineyards. And France is not amused. When the operation was discovered, the bakery was threatened with closure, and we helped them prove they had no knowledge of the activity."

"So the pastry was saved."

"It was."

"Bakeries and murders and an idiosyncratic partner to boot. No wonder you have difficulty explaining why you like this job so much."

"Well, there's just a certain..." and she shook her head ruefully and shrugged her shoulders, smiling as she took another bite of her scone.

* * *

**Title**: Milestones  
**Summary**: Watson takes the next step.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #15: Almost halfway there! Miles to go before we sleep! - Use however this inspires you.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She felt absurd, like she was asking a boyfriend for a drawer at his place, except it was her place too, and he'd been mocking her for months for keeping her stuff in storage. She finally decided she wanted her books, so one sweaty saturday afternoon Alfredo drove over in a 2015 demo SUV with personal dvd players for every passenger and a built-in mini-fridge and helped her lug the biggest bookcase and twenty boxes of books over to the brownstone.

There were two boxes left once the bookcase was filled, so she went down to the study to make the request.

"All settled in?" he asked from his desk, not turning away from the document he was writing.

"Just about..."

He hmmed in reply and went back to typing.

"So..." It was stupid to feel this awkward. "I have some reference books I'd like easy access too, and I've filled up the bookcase in my room. Is there a shelf down here I can use?"

His fingers continued to tap for a moment before petering out as the question sank in. She remembered his reaction to Ms Hudson reorganizing the library; he'd been distracted by the new arrangement for days even though he'd acquiesced quite quickly that it was more logical.

She expected him to contort his face or his hands at the imposition, offer her one of the top shelves she'd never be able to reach, deride the likely subject matter, or suggest she simply stack the books on the floor of her room like a normal consulting detective. Instead, he turned around, looking almost absurdly pleased. "Why Watson, I thought you'd never ask."

She was a little taken aback but wasn't going to let him see that. "Okay, thanks. Do you have a preference?" She saw him eye the upper shelves with the ghost of a smirk, and she arched an eyebrow in reply. "I don't want to disturb your system."

"I can clear out the shelves next to your desk, or you might take the middle shelf on the far end of the library next to the fireplace; there's a disciplinary break there between the hard and soft sciences that could use a buffer."

The low bookcase in the study was too apt to have experiments spilled on it, so the next morning she started shifting the contents of the bottom of the library bookcase to empty her shelf. There were only a few unpleasant surprises hidden behind his books, just one weapon, the missing mug he claimed she must have broken, and the desiccated remnant of something she hoped was a half-eaten muffin and not a mouse.

She was clearing off the mantel as a staging area when she found the framed verse she'd given him for his anniversary. He'd covered the glass with a piece of felt and placed it face down to be a pedestal for Angus. She'd wondered what he'd done with it, figuring he'd tossed it in a box or drawer; it's not like he'd need to see it to remember the lines. But to find it here, hidden in plain sight and in the company of his other trusted companion; she was more touched than she expected.

She slid the frame and the bust together toward the center of the mantel and felt something move inside. She lifted Angus off and saw that the backing was not quite flush with its groves and took it down to fix the misalignment. Underneath, between the poem and the back, was a one-year chip.

* * *

**Title**: Looking Backward  
**Summary**: Watson goes to the lighthouse.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #16: Viewer's Choice: Use one of the following pictures as the inspiration for today's entry (or if you're really brave, use both!). Choice #1: Lighthouse; Choice #2: Tom Ford suit. **A/N:** Watson's lighthouse is at Fort Washington Park, at the base of the George Washington bridge.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sherlock had woken her up even earlier than usual, so other than "possible serial murder" Joan hadn't bothered to absorb the rest of the information, the recounting of which occupied him while she got dressed, bleary eyed. No time to make coffee, he claimed, so she insisted they stop on the way to the subway. He waited outside the coffee shop, hands jammed into his pockets, bouncing first one heel and then the other.

She hesitated before handing him his. "How much caffeine did you have last night?" He made a face and pulled the cup out of her grasp.

She managed to consume about half of hers by the time they transferred trains in Manhattan and finally started to think about more than simply not losing him in the crush of commuters. The second train pulled in, and noting it was uptown-bound, asked, "Where are we going, again?" but she couldn't hear his answer over the din.

They were lucky to get seats, and he passed her the file.

"The lighthouse at Fort Washington? I love that place! Had a birthday party there when I was ten; we got to take a tour inside and everything."

"We'll get a tour inside this time as well."

She flipped to the next page in the folder, made a rueful face, and sighed. "Probably no candles to blow out and make a wish on."

"No, the killer did that already. Part of his signature, actually."

"A candle in an old lighthouse. Where were the other murders?"

"One other there, in 2011, and three to five more at decommissioned lighthouses on Long Island Sound since 2009. All had a white taper left burning at the scene."

"Three to five?"

"Yes, well, I'm having trouble convincing local law enforcement that two of them may be part of this pattern. Until I gain access to the files, I can't confirm it."

They sat in silence for a while, swaying a bit as the express train rocked from side to side on its way uptown. They were in the last car, and she watched the track and the signal lights move backwards away from them through the exit door window at the end of the car.

"I got a suit for my tenth birthday," he said, staring at the map of the subway system on the opposite wall. She watched his eyes slide over the different routes, determining and confirming various travel permutations, she imagined. Escape routes, perhaps.

She could count on one hand the number of times he'd volunteered information about his childhood. Then again, he could say the same about her.

"And was that something you wanted or..."

"It was intended to be recognition that I had reached an age at which I would be expected to behave appropriately in adult company."

She pondered this and kept the slew of possible rejoinders to herself. Some discreet lip-biting may have been involved. After a slightly too long pause she cleared her throat and ventured, "So, a mixed blessing, then."

"I sold it for cash to buy a compound microscope. The one I still have, as a matter of fact."

"How was that received?"

"I was most pleased. My father never knew. The first occasion at which I was expected to wear it conveniently fell some months later, at which point I'd grown ten centimeters and could claim I'd outgrown it. I was sent off to have a new one fitted and chose a color that demonstrated to my parents that it was a bit too soon to trust me in this context. Got me out of two more years of dreary formal dinners."

"Do you remember the first thing you looked at under your microscope?"

"Oh yes. Blood," glancing at her. "My own. Got a fortuitous scrape on my way home after buying it."

She pictured a group of older boys chasing after a gangly loner, wondering if that was anything like what had happened.

"Do you recall what you wished for at your lighthouse birthday?"

She laughed, startled at the unexpectedness of hearing him ask her such a question. "Wow, I don't know. Let me..." She tried to remember that day more clearly; the cake was shaped like the lighthouse, with red frosting. Candles placed in the windows and the door. She closed her eyes, trying to reconnect with that girl and her wish. "I don't remember the birthday candle wish, but I do know I spent the rest of the month dreaming about working at the lighthouse when I grew up. It was a terrible disappointment to learn it hadn't been functional for decades."

The train stuttered to a sudden stop between stations, and their shoulders banged together a few times. He caught the folder before it slipped off her lap, and the train started up again. "And yet here we are, off to work at the lighthouse," she said, taking the folder back from him.

"Not quite the way you imagined."

"Ha, no," she said, looking out into the dark tunnel trailing behind them. I never could have imagined all this, she thought, as their shoulders bumped again.


	3. Chapter 3: prompts 17-24

**Note**: For this set, I decided 1. to limit myself to 221 words each day, and 2. to try to build a single story out of the 8 prompts. The result is a little choppy, but not a complete failure, I don't think. I put the prompts for each day in a note at the end.

* * *

17. Before You Leap

"Okay, that was stupid."

She lay in the gravel at the side of the road, cataloguing the result: scrapes, scratches, cracked clavicle, torn tibial tendon...

"Which part?" He squatted down beside her, shifting so that his torso blocked the early morning sun that had been making her squint. She couldn't read his expression.

"Getting out of bed this morning?" She tried to push up to a sitting position and was immediately sorry. "Uhh."

"If you hadn't done that, you wouldn't have been with me hiding in the trunk, and we wouldn't have found the bomb, and I wouldn't have been able to try to disarm it while you distracted the killer into hitting that tree, and the shopping center would have been blown up."

"I _would_ miss the Indian place there."

"Yes, you would." He brushed some gravel out of his hair and tore off what was left of the sleeve of his jacket, ripping a strip of the lining to dab at the blood on her forehead starting to drip down her face.

"So it wasn't stupid?" She tried again to sit up, more slowly this time, using his arm for leverage.

"Getting out of bed was not stupid. Agreeing to be my partner, well, I believe an independent review panel might express some misgivings."

"Let's not ask them, then."

* * *

18. Misstep

He helped her up, and when she was too unsteady on one foot, braced her with one hand on her arm and his other arm around her back. It reminded her of the time she'd tried square dancing. Promenade?

She noticed he was leading her away from the crashed car to the shade of some trees nearby. "How's the driver?"

"Dead. Airbag forced the knife he was holding into his own jugular."

She felt her joints quiver and collapse, and he stumbled with the sudden shift in her balance. "I did that," she whispered.

"This is no time for swooning, Watson. Apparently I should add seduction techniques to your training regimen."

"Don't do that," she snapped.

He set his face in stubborn lines, his grip a little tighter on her bicep, making her wince as it pulled on her collarbone.

"If you don't like where the conversation is going, just stop talking. Trying to distract me with some stupid innuendo or blunt sexual comment only pisses me off. And it's not like I can't see right through it."

He pressed his lips tightly and moved them forward again, jostling her tender ankle. He immediately slowed at her sharp intake of breath, and neither spoke until they were on the ground and resting against a tree trunk.

"Come here often?" he asked.

* * *

19. Callous

"Watson, he was a coward and planning to harm others, besides."

"Those are excuses."

"I'm not attempting to insult your intelligence by offering justification or any simple equation trading a life for a life."

"But?"

"But wallowing in guilt won't stop people dying."

"Won't prevent me from inadvertently killing. Again. You mean."

"No! This is my point. You did not kill that man. You stopped him from killing others, and in the process, he killed himself because he chose to be armed with a knife."

She dropped her head back against the tree, eyes closed. "Okay. But I can still feel bad about what happened, just let me feel bad for a minute, and then I'll be done."

She felt him sigh in response. With her eyes closed and his silence, she could hear the leaves rustling in the breeze and the occasional tick of cooling metal from the car smashed twenty feet away. He shifted his legs, tapping her bad ankle, and she looked over at him. He'd tilted his head back and closed his eyes as well, and she could see the abrasion along his forehead and temple. One hand rubbed his bent knee.

"I'm fine, Watson," he said without turning. "Just some scrapes and bruises. Khaki has its benefits."

She sighed back, uncertain if she wanted thicker skin.

* * *

20. Forced Perspective

"EMT's another hour, at least," he said, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Between the parade, another bomb scare, and no immediate danger here..." He glanced at her for confirmation, and she nodded.

"Nothing to do for my clavicle, but I should wrap my ankle with something."

He stood up with a grunt, went to where she had ended up after the crash, and picked up the discarded sleeve of his jacket, tearing it into a long strip.

"It's something we have in common, you know."

He looked both wary and skeptical, ready to refute whatever it was she was going to say.

"Assuming culpability for things we probably can't control. Part ego, part penance," and she held eye contact, daring him to challenge her. "Part coping mechanism," and he snorted at that, crouching down by her foot and looking up for permission.

She nodded, not sure what to expect from his first aid skills, but he was careful and deft, gently removing her shoe and aligning her foot into a neutral position before winding the cloth strip in a figure-eight around ankle and arch.

When he was done she rested the bound foot on her other knee to elevate it. "Thanks, better." He frowned. "You think you're responsible too," she said.

He glanced over, expressionless.

"I rest my case."

* * *

21. Objects in Space

Sherlock was reading on his phone, distant in his concentration. Hers was missing in action, smashed when she jumped or maybe still in the car. He said he'd taken care of the bomb, but she wasn't so bored she was willing to risk it. Yet.

The day was heating up, the earlier breeze gone. In the still hot air, the cicada whine waxed and waned, and sparrows squabbled in the dust by the road. When she felt the bead of sweat drip down her face, she wiped it away impatiently. She might not want to gamble on the bomb in the car, but detonating the uneasy silence between them was old hat.

"What are you reading?"

He didn't reply, but given the utter lack of plausible deniability that he hadn't heard her sitting six inches away, she stared at him until he capitulated.

"Article on lost comets." His t's were all sharp tacks, and he didn't take his eyes off the screen.

"What about them? Gimme a break, Sherlock. How do you lose a comet?"

His tension eased a notch. "It's a designation for comets that don't reappear when predicted. Due to interference from another celestial body, decay, or miscalculation."

"Something's not 'lost' if you just got the math wrong."

"Until the mistake is discovered, the loss is all you know."

* * *

22. Weighs Upon the Heart

His words stirred uncomfortable memories. She knew he preferred the clarity of knowledge, no matter how painful, but the realization that had transformed tragedy to horror when her patient died still blurred her perception of who she was and what she should do. "Sometimes loss is better than knowing," she said, staring at the would-be bomber's car.

The dead man's car.

He turned toward her sharply, eyes hard, and she put up a hand. "No, no, I don't believe that." Wiped more sweat off her forehead. "It's just— sometimes I'd like to believe that ignorance is bliss. Be oblivious for a while."

"'Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,  
Raze out the written troubles of the brain'?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice. What is that, Hamlet?"

"MacBeth. 'Therein the patient must minister to herself,' Watson. Although I suppose I can't argue with the desire for 'some sweet oblivious antidote' as that's the line of reasoning that brought us where we are today." He looked almost amused now, waiting for her to follow his logic. It hit a second later, and she dropped her head, chagrined.

"Wow. I'm really not a sober companion any more, am I. Sorry."

"Not at all, Watson. I wouldn't have it any other way."

...

"Wait, I'm Lady MacBeth? I think I might have to protest too much."

* * *

23. Eloquence Escapes

After the fifth time she asked what time it was, he gave her his phone. Having a clock in her hand didn't help. The battery was low, so no internet browsing either. She should have learned self-hypnosis. Of course he was only too willing to wax poetic about any number of topics when she had other things to focus on, but now, when she was surely dying of boredom and a sprained ankle, he was silent. But not motionless, she observed. He sat with knees bent, a hand on each, and the fingers of the left were just barely moving, tapping his patella in some complicated pattern.

"Piano or violin?" she asked a little louder than strictly necessary and was perversely gratified to see him miss a note.

"Bass, actually."

"Huh. Guitar or Double?" There were rooms in the brownstone she'd never entered; maybe he had the whole orchestra in there somewhere.

"Double." And not inclined to elaborate, apparently.

She had an unlikely image of him as a sullen, angry teen with a torn t-shirt and his first tattoo, in a cover band playing The Police. Sullen and angry seemed plausible, but maybe not the band. And then she remembered the miserable month in college when "De Do Do Do" was stuck in her—

"Dammit," she muttered, fingers tapping.

* * *

24. Independent Review

She'd resorted to hitting her head against the tree as a distraction from the earworm and the interminable wait for the authorities to arrive. Testing Sherlock's bomb-defusing skills was becoming more tempting.

"Watson."

She normally thought of herself as someone with a great deal of patience but apparently that was only true in the presence of upholstery, caffeine, and temperature control.

"Watson."

Given that she was about to be fired from her current position due to an inability to sit still, it was good to know that artist's model probably wouldn't be a viable option either. She knew from her recent homework that many artists attempted self-portraits; she might be able to pull that off. If it didn't require, you know, artistic ability.

"Watson, _listen_."

She cut off her plans for career number four and heard the most beautiful sound in the world: faint sirens, getting louder. She broke into a grin and pushed up to stand with the help of the tree.

Her smile faded as she looked over the scene and the reason there were sirens in the first place. She'd had better mornings, in every sense. Time to do something about that, she thought, and she smoothed her hair back and hobbled over to wait with her partner at the side of the road.

* * *

**prompts 17 - 24:**

17: Watson's Woes - and another alliteration. This time, whump Watson woefully with an alliterative injury or woe of any severity. A swift stabbing or a gooey gumdrop? It's up to you to invent, write, and deploy!

18: Words, words, words: use five woe-related words that aren't included in one of the two Watson's Woes prompt tables, but you think should have been: jugular, quiver, swoon, tender, wince.

19: Quote: "A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave." - Mohandas Gandhi.

20: Rabbit Season: Either choose an old challenge from Watson's Woes and write an 'entry' for that challenge, or get inspiration from the plot bunny thread. Challenge 016: Write about a minor illness/injury. (Also revisited an earlier prompt, #8: forced perspective, using it metaphorically again.)

21: Lost comet. Use however this inspires you — whether it's the phrase, the idea, or an actual 'lost' comet, such as the one rediscovered in 1894 (among other years).

22: The Bard: We can't have a challenge without a little Shakespeare. Use a quote, a reference, or the man himself — it's all up to you.

23: Earworm. We've all had music get stuck in our heads. Now do the same to a character in your story.

24: Picture prompt: Man with pipe (self-portrait by Horace Vernet).


	4. Chapter 4: prompts 25-31

**Title**: The Unreliable Narrator  
**Summary**: Watson and Alfredo inspire tomorrow's leaders today.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #25: **So very Gorey:** Surely an artist that would tickle the modern Holmes' funnybone, and possibly would have gotten a laugh (or a long, cold stare) from the ACD original. Take your inspiration from one of the works of Edward Gorey, from the man, from a random title of one of his works, or whatever else tickles your fancy.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Okay, you know I don't like asking, but back when we started he said we could talk about it..."

Joan looked up from her book to see Alfredo standing in the foyer, hands stuffed into his pockets. With just him there, she knew the "we" in question did not include Sherlock.

"Where'd he go?"

"He's still on the stoop, interrogating a pair of canvassers about the financial misdeeds of the supposed non-profit they're trying to help."

Joan laughed. "Those poor kids."

"Yeah. So before he's back, what does it mean when he shares tales of old cases in the meeting?"

"That's how he first started talking there at all, but he only did it the once when I was going with him."

"He shared regular meeting stuff?" Alfredo lifted his bag over his head and stepped into the library to sit on the arm of the couch.

"Uh, no. Not often. Twice, actually, I think."

"I've only heard him share once, before this. But now it's been three meetings in a row."

"What did he say when you asked?"

"The first time he said there was a lull, which, to be fair, there was. Five minutes of silence starts to feel like an hour."

"Sure."

"The second time he said somebody asked him about it, but he didn't say who, or when, so I don't know. This last time, he said it was an experiment."

Joan sighed. "I'm sure he could make an experiment out of it, but..."

"That's not what the time is for. Yeah. I just wonder. Is it a warning sign? Is he asking for help? That's what Ken wondered, when I checked in with him for advice."

Her eyes widened at the thought, and she considered what she recalled of his behaviour the past week or two. She'd been making a conscious effort to stop defaulting to sober companion mode with him, but she didn't think she'd miss any obvious indications that he was struggling or worse.

"The time he did it when I was there, he was in a sort of transition period. There had been a crisis, and I think he was starting to perceive the scope of the work, as you put it. In retrospect, I understood it to be a way for him to share something important about himself — his other work — when he wasn't ready for more. But then it seemed he saw it as an easy way around the work that's supposed to happen there, so I cut him off."

"He listens to you."

"Ha! Well, I suppose, sometimes. At the time this happened, I was still his sober companion, so there was some external structure I could use to back me up. But now, I guess my next thought is to figure out whether the stories he told this time indicate anything about what he's thinking. What were the cases?"

"That's the other thing. The way he talks about them, it's as if they _are_ stories. He gives them little titles and everything. It's completely different from the way you discuss cases usually."

"You know, that's how he did it that one time I was there. And when I warned him to stop, it was when he told me he was going to tell the next group about the case of the blue something-or-other."

"This time it was 'The Willodale Handcar,' A Winter Afternoon in Lonely Valley,' and 'The Awdrey-Gore Legacy' — the titles were so odd I wrote them down, but the stories themselves rambled. There was a missing woman and an abandoned child in the first one; a hotel with a higher than average number of odd deaths, and something about a mystery writer but I couldn't tell if he was talking about her novels or something that actually happened to her."

"I've never heard of any of those."

"I thought he was just bored, you know, but this last time, he said something that felt like, I don't know. A clue? 'The crucial information can be hidden in a simple plan.' That's when I thought something else is going on."

"Okay. I haven't noticed anything to worry about, but I don't know for sure that I would." She pushed back the anxiety the thought threatened to release. "I guess I'd tell him to cut the crap, first. Maybe this is what he does when he gets to a plateau, or is trying to avoid the next step he knows he needs to take."

"You know, that may be it. Steps. We have been working on some of those, and there might be... Okay. I think I've got it from here. For now, anyway. Thanks."

She nodded, acknowledging the line he'd redrawn between them. It was better to be on the outside of his recovery process now, but she did sometimes miss it, being a part of it.

Sherlock burst in then, trailed by the two college kids. "New case, Watson!" he said with enthusiasm. "Just paying my informants here and we'll need to be off to do some reconnaissance." He paused to take a closer look at Joan and Alfredo. "If you two are finished consulting, that is."

Alfredo shook his head and chuckled. "See you next week, man. And Wednesday at the chop shop," he nodded to Joan.

"See you there," she said, fighting to keep her poker face as the young women with NYPIRG t-shirts looked on in shock and awe.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**_note:_**_I assume only Holmes knows about Watson's lie._

* * *

**Title:** Stalemate  
**Summary:** Watson is weary.  
**Note:** Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #26: **The golden mean:** the desirable middle between two extremes, one of excess and the other of deficiency.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"What do you mean, 'there's no middle ground'? Everyone has to compromise sometimes, Sherlock. Even you." She leaned over to the bedside chair to grab a pen and made another tick-mark on the wall. Seventeenth unwarranted wake-up since she started keeping track.

"Obviously," he said with an expression of long-suffering forbearance. She needed to practice mimicking that tone, given that _she_ was in the right. Obviously. He was lucky she loved her pillow too much to throw it at his head. She took a firmer hold on it as she clutched it across her torso, eyes determinedly closed again.

"My 'demand' for at least six hours of sleep is not what I'd call a compromise on _your_ part. Considering it's my life expectancy that's going to suffer." She shifted the pillow a little higher so she could duck her head behind it.

"There are other lives at stake, Watson!"

"This may shock you, but I really don't care that much about your fruit fly experiments." She pulled her other pillow out from under her head to flip it on top, arm anchoring it firmly over her ear, and raised her voice to be heard through the buffer. "Especially not at three. Thirty. In the morning!"

He didn't respond, and while she didn't dare release her armor, she did begin to hope as the seconds passed that she'd been given a reprieve. Until she felt the mattress dip at the foot of the bed and the bouncing begin. How much did she love her pillow? Still too much. The lamp was too heavy to lift while prone. She didn't want to have to buy a new tablet. An underreported downside to ebooks was the inability to lob them at your obdurate partner. She'd need to put a pile of hardcovers on the floor next to her bed for future incursions. She wondered, her thoughts starting to follow the iambic bouncing, if _he'd_ be _more_ ann_oyed_ by _be_ing _hit_ with _books_ he _thought_ were _good_ or _those_ he _didn't_?

He put more force into the springs and the metal frame started to scrape the floor as the whole bed stuttered. There was no way she was going to give up first, but she scooted a little closer to the middle of the bed to avoid getting tossed off one side or the other. Two more hard hits and he rebounded up to stand again.

There was silence, and then she heard him stomp down the stairs, and she couldn't help grinning. Until she realized what was coming next and scrambled for the ear plugs by the lamp.

* * *

**Title:** Object Lesson  
**Summary:** Watson reads a book.  
**Note:** Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #27: **Like gold to airy thinness beat:** Pick up the book you're currently reading (or the closest one to you). Pick a random page, and find a description or simile. Use that - and be sure to tell us what your original description is, and what's the source.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Watson set the book down and shut her eyes. The first time he sees his creation after years of running from it always affected her like this. Something he'd strived for, sacrificed for, devoted himself to became in the instant of success — and through his own failure of imagination — the most terrible evil of his life. It's a tragedy even before the creature's own story is told. Genius spurred by arrogance and hubris spawns terror and heartbreak. And even in the end, Victor never comprehended the wrong he did his creature by refusing compassion. Such negligence crawled through her nightmares.

_-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-_

_A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy dæmon to whom I had given life._  
— **Frankenstein, **Mary Shelley (ch 6)

* * *

**Title:** How Does Your Garden Grow?  
**Summary:** Watson's preference for take-out may be justified.  
**Note:** Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #28: **Botany Bay:** Plants frequently play an important part in Holmesian stories. Pick an herb, flower, or other plant, and make it a key part of your entry today.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"You believe the murderer used homemade poison?" Watson sliced a banana over the bowl already full of yogurt, granola, and blueberries.

"Oh yes. There are a multitude of near-untraceable options available to the determined amateur botanical toxicologist, and many of the resulting symptoms mimic other ailments. I observed several possible ingredients at the suspect's community garden plot."

She hesitated, overloaded spoon halfway to her mouth. "Given the lack of plants at the brownstone, I assume your knowledge of 'amateur botanical toxicology' is purely theoretical?"

He picked at the binding of the text he'd been reading at the table, face scrunched in indecision before responding. She took the bold step of swallowing the fruit and yogurt. It was probably safe.

"Yes, well, you once asked why I didn't have any planters up on the roof with the apiary. As it happens, I did have some once."

"Okay…"

"Quite a lovely little garden. Flowers, vegetables, and some plants best known for their, ah, chemical properties. There was a slight mix-up with the salad once. And a possibly problematic herb omelet although I never conclusively cleared suspicion from those eggs. My head is significantly clearer now than it was when I had the garden, but it seemed prudent to put aside those studies."

"Prudent, hmm. At least we'll always have take-out."

* * *

**Title:** Self-Preservation  
**Summary:** Watson takes aim.  
**Note:** Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #29: **Drabble, drabble, toil and scribble: **Write a drabble of either exactly 100 words, or write a 221(b) (two hundred and twenty one words, ending with a word that starts with b).

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Where are you?**

**lbry**

Joan stood in their library, alone, and sighed as she texted.

**I'm in the library. You're not.**

**nypl**

**Why?**

**Y not?**

Fine. If that was his mood, he was better off out of range of the rubber bands she'd been practicing shooting single-handed. She pulled one from her pocket, loaded it up, and shot it at the center of his computer monitor where it made a satisfying THWAP against the glass. Then she settled down for a quiet afternoon.

It was past dark when he returned; she'd enjoyed a long nap, snacked on some leftovers, and read a novel blissfully unmolested by his opinions of contemporary fiction about which he knew very little. Not that it stopped him from making declarations about her time being better spent on the readings he selected. He shouted "Watson!" as he came in and barrelled directly to the closet in the study, disappearing inside.

"I spent a fascinating afternoon in the Library's conservation department discussing the preservation of analog formats for audio material," he yelled, pulling boxes off of shelves and stuffing them back again. "I have several hundred cassettes you will begin transcribing immediately." He stuck his head out of the closet. "Watson! Did you hear me?"

"Oh yes," she said, and armed herself with a new rubber band.

* * *

**Title:** Between the Lines  
**Summary:** Watson unknowingly attends an impromptu meeting of the Joan Watson Fan Club.  
**Note:** Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #30: **Mirror, Mirror:** Write a story from a minor character's point of view, where he or she sees something similar between him/herself and Sherlock Holmes.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Mary Watson didn't know what to expect from her daughter's client before he introduced himself at the restaurant. When Oren told her Joan was bringing him, she was irritated, understanding it to be a rebuke for her babysitting comment at brunch. Irritated with herself, of course, although she knew she would be unable to express this in a manner Joan would understand. Things had been strained between them for some time.

She knew that Joan's clients were generally rather wealthy, to be able to afford fulltime care-giving of this sort. Still, the ragged and worn expressions of lost people she'd seen on city streets gave her certain expectations, none of which were met in the lean serious face of the man who stepped forward when she entered the restaurant with Oren and Gabrielle.

"Mrs. Watson, I presume? Sherlock Holmes, your daughter's charge." A small self-deprecating smile. "Ms Watson will be here shortly." He inclined his head slightly as he spoke. He did not extend his hand in greeting until she moved hers and then met it in a firm and steady shake, long enough for her to detect no underlying tremor. She had not realized she was expecting that until she didn't feel it.

When they were seated and the server inquired about drinks, she hesitated, unsure of the etiquette. Mr. Holmes said quietly, "Please do not abstain on my account," and she assumed Joan would not have suggested he come or let him be here unattended if she had concerns on this front. When the server turned to him, he gave a small shake of his head and said, "Water is sufficient, thank you." Once more, she felt an unnoticed thread of tension ease, another old memory slipping back to rest.

Mr. Holmes then launched into an explanation of why Joan was not yet at the restaurant, due to his needing to follow up on a detail of the day's case, which led to him explaining more about his work. Oren was fascinated and asked question after question, and she remembered him as a small boy borrowing every Encyclopedia Brown book the library had, over and over again. Didn't Joan read those books too?

She knew that Joan had arrived a split second before he spoke to greet her, by the way his eyes widened in pleasure and the tiniest hint of trepidation. Her heart lurched in recognition. She watched the murmured exchange between them as he held her chair and felt another pang at the easy communication that passed before her. Joan was not entirely pleased about something he'd done, and he knew it, and somehow they managed to express their disagreement without disengaging. She had been able to talk to her daughter like that, once.

When Mr. Holmes spoke about Joan's work and what it meant for him, she heard herself telling friends about her daughter the surgeon. It was clear Joan had never heard this speech before, and she was gratified on her daughter's behalf but also on her own. Joan had shut down after her patient died and would brook no discussion of her subsequent career choices. She had good, if misplaced, reasons to expect family members might let her down.

Mary knew her own confused and hurt feelings had only made things worse. There was no way to explain to Joan how she felt responsible, however irrationally, for the pain her daughter went through with that death and its aftermath. She hoped by acknowledging Mr. Holmes' description, Joan would hear what she'd been trying to say, what she had always wanted to say. How very much she wanted her daughter to be happy.

* * *

**Title:** Let Sleeping Skeletons Lie  
**Summary:** Watson doesn't like surprises.  
**Note:** Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge #31: **Just a little bit more:** Write an add-on scene to one of your own stories. This can be an addition to a previous entry you wrote for JWP. Please link the story to which you're adding on! **A/N:** This follows the story made up of prompts 17-24.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Her ankle was mostly healed, but the third time scaling three flights of stairs was half a flight too much and it started to ache. She didn't want to use the bannister for support as her collarbone was in similar shape and the additional strain would set it off too. It was sacrilegious to complain about having too much space in New York but sometimes she thought wistfully of the modest layouts of the places she'd called home before the brownstone.

"Are you sure the slides are in this one? Because this is my last trip up today," she called down the stairwell. There was an indistinct rumble from three floors down in response. She sighed and slowly resumed climbing to the third floor landing. After she first moved in, she'd explored the house on her own when it became clear he wasn't interested in giving her an official tour. The only room they regularly used on this floor was the media room; when she'd peeked into the other two rooms, she saw boxes, furniture, and lots of undisturbed dust. She'd only been in here once since then. It was the middle room on the floor, sharing pocket doors with the tv room. She'd tried to open them once, but they were off the track and wouldn't budge.

The last time she'd opened this door was when she finally had her things moved from the storage unit a few months before. Sherlock had directed the movers at this end of the job, which meant she knew where absolutely nothing was, and she was happy to remain in the dark about that a while longer. He did have the foresight to keep a path clear to the closet, although there was a bit of a maze of stacked boxes to navigate to get to the door. The doorknob did not turn easily when she gripped it, and the wood had swelled a bit in the summer humidity. She had to yank quite forcefully, producing a yelp as her clavicle protested and then a shout of surprise and pain when the door popped open and a skeleton fell out and knocked her down.

"Dammit!" She scrambled out from under the bones and the heavy stand that narrowly missed hitting her head. She'd have a good bruise on her hip from it.

"Watson?" She could hear his quick steps in the stairwell, and a moment later he was at the doorway peering into the dim room. The shutters were closed and she hadn't bothered to find a light switch. She heard him flip the switch a few times but no light came on. "Bulb's out."

"You don't say."

He made his way through the boxes to where she sat on the floor, a ribcage in her lap.

"Is this yours or mine?" she asked. "Because mine was packed away in its case when I put the stuff in the storage unit." Although she was pretty sure she knew the answer, it certainly was possible that he had his own human skeleton in storage too.

"It seemed a shame to keep it boxed up like that. After I assembled it, I put it in the closet to keep the dust off."

"And then you just happened to forget this fact when you sent me up here."

The pursed lips and shift of his lower jaw confirmed this deduction. He stooped to gently lift the torso off her thighs and placed it on top of a stack of boxes.

"It is a lovely specimen, Watson. However did you come to obtain it? Not typical surgical paraphernalia, is it?" He collected the arms and a tibia as she slid the pelvis to the side and righted the stand, vertebrae swinging unencumbered by its scattered limbs. "Good thing you were there to cushion its fall. Is anything broken?" He anxiously scanned the disassembled bones, apparently unconcerned about her own status.

"It was a door prize. The anatomy department was upgrading and had a raffle at their holiday party my third year." She'd joked that it was her quiet but unhelpful roommate for the next two years, never did the dishes or cleaned the bathroom but didn't mind being entertainment at parties.

By the time she moved to her last apartment she'd outgrown the joke, and then suddenly it became necessary to put away all evidence of her medical career. While that was no longer a strictly enforced position, being blindsided by the past set her teeth on edge. "Where did you put the case?"

He looked at her, surprised. "Why not just put it back together?"

She didn't reply as she pushed against a stack of boxes to stand, grunting as first her collarbone and then her ankle whined at their mistreatment. She brushed her hands on her legs. "Since you're here, you can look for the slides you wanted now. Put the skeleton away however you like; I'm going to go wash my hands and ice my ankle. Again." She slipped past him, flinching as the end of the shin bone in his hand traced a line across her back.


	5. Chapter 5: amnesty prompts

**Title**: Once Again I Reach  
**Summary**: Watson has had enough.  
**Notes**: Watson's Woes July Word Prompt Challenge Amnesty Round: single story includes prompts 1 - 7. See notes at end for prompts. A/N: This follows the story made up of prompts 17-24 (chapter 3), plus prompt #31 in chapter 4.

* * *

After Watson left the storage room, he collected the bones that had fallen out of the closet and methodically reassembled the piece, considering the results of the experiment as he worked. Being among her own things clearly set her on edge, although the lingering discomfort from her injuries couldn't be ruled out as a mitigating factor in her short temper. In fact the psychological discomfort she experienced in the aftermath of the would-be-bomber's car crash almost certainly exacerbated her negative reaction to entering this room. It was too bad he'd forgotten the actual skeleton in the closet; that variable skewed the results immeasurably. Nonetheless, he had the data he wanted to collect by sending her up here, even if he did not know how to proceed now that he had it.

He'd tried negative reinforcement, refusing to listen to her doubts and self-deprecation, but apparently that served only to limit his exposure, not to change her thinking in any way.

And what was the problem, exactly? She continued to remain committed to their work. She excelled in almost every lesson he set before her. The partnership was all that he thought it could be. But she was not happy.

That gave him pause. Watson was not happy; what matter was that to him? Her dissatisfaction lingered from unresolved aspects of her medical career. It was not something he had any control over or any responsibility for or any ability to repair. She did not let that unhappiness get in the way of their work. He knew she still found the work satisfying; if not for the problem in the past, he believed she would be happy. And he wanted that.

He wanted her to be happy.

The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he felt: the last time he cared to this extent about another person's emotional state, things did not go well for him. Obviously Watson was no Moriarty. He had no doubt that there was any measure of artifice or coercion in her unhappiness. And he had no delusions that he had any power of any kind to fix the reason for her unhappiness. She would never ask.

But now that he considered the situation directly, he realized that he was unhappy because she was unhappy. He muttered a profanity. And still a solution to the puzzle eluded him.

Well, attempting to deduce her feelings was too difficult on a number of levels. And there was only one way around that.

*.*.*

"Watson." He passed her a cup of tea, hoping the prop would be an ice-breaker.

"Thanks." She took the cup without looking up from the book he'd assigned her this week, on shoe construction and repair.

"Watson."

"Hmm?" Still not looking.

"It is now well past the traditional mourning period, and any emotional processing that remains would be better served through action rather than contemplation." He took a breath as her grip on the edge of the book whitened her knuckles. "It would be propitious for you to renew your medical license."

Tea splattered across the book, which thankfully belonged to the library, not him. Couldn't say the same for his t-shirt. At least he had the foresight to wear one he didn't particularly like.

"If this is some unbelievably inappropriate armchair psychologizing—"

"It would be invaluable to our work."

"In what way? I can't recall a single case in which having a surgeon on hand to dissect a liver or remove a tumor would have made any difference."

"Obviously, because we didn't have one, we never saw such cases."

"Sherlock—" The low timbre of her voice brought to mind another conversation. _I think you know a lost cause when you see one._

"All right, never mind. It would be a convenience, not something I require. I managed without a surgeon before, I'm sure we will do as well going forward. If you prefer to remain bound to past events, that is of course your choice." He held up a hand to stem an outburst she didn't make. "I for one am in no place to judge, although I thought perhaps my experience might serve as an object lesson to the contrary. No matter; it was just a thought."

"Yeah," she said, and got up and left the room.

*.*.*

He heard the front door slam an hour later and took the opportunity to head upstairs to retrieve the printouts he'd left in the media room that he didn't want to get at the risk of crossing paths with her. On his way up he glanced into her room and stopped abruptly. The closet door was ajar, the bed stripped, and one drawer half open. He entered slowly, as if wary she was going to jump out of a corner and berate him for invading her privacy once too often. But it appeared that such trespass had already happened. She was gone.

*.*.*

He didn't know how long he stood in her doorway, but when he made his way downstairs, he found a note on his computer keyboard. "Can't stay. No contact. JW." A fifth word, "don't," was heavily crossed out. He lost more time contemplating the potential nuances in her words. A knock on the door pulled him back to his senses, and he was surprised to find the room dark, flickering sensors on the scanner and power lights the only illumination. His phone buzzed on the table behind him, and he hurried to it, relieved, and then disappointed to see a string of texts from Alfredo, the last of which stated his intent to stop by the brownstone, which he read just as the knock repeated.

When he opened the door, Alfredo looked at him expectant, and the appointment he'd missed snapped into focus.

"My apologies, Alfredo. Something came up this afternoon that disrupted my schedule. Can we reconvene at the 38th Street meeting tomorrow?"

"All right. You know I get it about your work. It's just usually you let me know. You okay?"

The answer that roared inside made him blink in its ferocity, but he steeled his spine and nodded brusquely. "I am a bit distracted over a miscalculation I made earlier today. Trying to work out what can be salvaged. Something of a complex problem; it's taken all my concentration."

"Okay." He suspected Alfredo knew there was more but also knew he could rely on his natural reticence to refrain from further questions. For now. "So, do you mind if I come in? I've got something for Joan."

"Ah, Watson is out for the evening. Would you like to leave it with me?"

"Nah, I'll see her on Friday." Friday! That was not too long to wait.

"Good night, then."

Over the next day, his fingers still sent texts when he came across something he wanted her to know, which his brain noticed a second too late to stop. The fourth time the text bounced back, number not available.

Sleep was a luxury and an indulgence. He had to continue working on the problem in the absence of a partner. Temporary absence. Yes.

Passing by her empty room on the way to the bath or or the third floor became harder as the week progressed. On the fifth day, he pushed the door open and came in to set on the end of the bed. From there he could see the stack of books on the floor, all her assigned readings. The shoemaking book was on top, open still to page 836 with now-dry tea spatters. He leaned over the edge of the bed to retrieve it. The author, Violet Ecks, wrote with florid language, odd to find in a text about the curing of thick and thin skins, the construction of lasts, and suitable materials for a sole. However, he parallels she drew between the cobbler and Frankenstein were surprising and, upon further reflection, surprisingly apt. A person he would like to talk to. Watson could be the mediator—

No. Just as well further investigation revealed that Ecks had died in 1981.

*.*.*

He missed the next two group meetings and conceded to be escorted to the third. When he appeared at the door, Alfredo gave him his long, "is there something you want to tell me?" look, but let his silence go unchallenged.

A new case came in, and he got to work on his own as he once did, as he'd started to do after Hemdale. As he hadn't done since Watson asked that doctor in the Amy Dampier case to account for his time the night of the murder. Gregson didn't pry into Watson's absence but Bell wouldn't quit with the questions as they spent long hours staking out the suspect.

"She's moved out. I assume, after two weeks, that she is not coming back. She declined to provide further information, but I will be happy to let her know you inquired should I ever hear from her again myself." That got him Bell's raised eyebrows and thankfully also his speechlessness. "She did not leave a forwarding address."

"Jeez."

The following week, he received a postcard. The front was of a painting, a still life of a cluttered table, something of a confusing jumble although he took hope from the inclusion of a violin. On the back was a smudged postmark it would take some time to decipher (partial postal code 07 wasn't going to get him far), his address, and a brief note. He ran his finger across her writing, didn't feel anything as his pulse returned to normal. _I haven't made any decisions. Let me._

He closed his eyes and tried to hear her say those words. Tried to hear her move around in her room, turn the kettle on, yell a greeting when she came back home after being away. He opened his eyes to a wish come true. She was gone, he had the place to himself again. Just as he had hoped that night on the roof when he suggested she go on holiday instead of staying as his sober companion. "True journey is return, Watson," he whispered to his locks.

* * *

**Note:** amnesty prompts

**The Perils of Pauline**: Use an over-the-top peril or cliffhanger.

**Ooops!** A mistake with consequences.

**Words to live by:** Use one of your favorite quotes in your story. **"True journey is return." Ursula K. Le Guin. ****_The Dispossessed_**

**Picture prompt:** Books, Mug, Pipe and Violin (painting) by John Frederick Peto

**Random play:** Put your MP3 player on shuffle, turn on the radio, or otherwise tune into a random stream of music. Use the fifth song in the playlist as your inspiration. - **Postcard Blues, Cowboy Junkies**

**purple prose:** Use however this inspires you.

**And where would we be without our wonderful mods?**: For this amnesty prompt, prominently use words starting with K, C, S, and E, and the numbers 07 and 836 (the latter number being the number of members as of this writing).

Title comes from the lyrics to "Postcard Blues":

Especially with my head pounding  
and lying helpless in my bed  
I long for you and your expert hands  
To ease this white heat from my head

And you would boast that you knew  
All the pressure points inside  
And you could just as easily kill me  
Beneath the desire that I hide

But as your patient I knew  
That your healing powers had grown  
From a sore that's far far deeper  
Than this heart where the pain was born

With my head again clear  
I think of words to send to you  
To coax you back to my side  
But always leave out "I love you"

And then through my front door  
A picture of a faraway land  
And ? to love along the back  
And once again I reach for my pen


End file.
